The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come
by falafel-fiction
Summary: Oneshot. Charlie's death casts a shadow over the Lostees first Christmas on the island.


**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: One-shot. Charlie's death casts a shadow over the Lostees first Christmas on the island.

**Characters**: Ensemble.

**Disclaime**r: I do not own Lost.

**Authors Note**: I don't know if this will be covered in the show, but Charlie's death came just two days before Christmas (on December 23rd). Considering that Charlie's character is so closely associated with Christmas (two of his flashbacks are set on Christmas Day) it makes his death seem even more tragic to me. If that's possible...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was Claire who reminded them all that it was Christmas time. The Aussie girl alone had been keeping track of dates and months in her little journal. It was December 23rd when Jack had made contact with Naomi's ship. On their way back to the beach they had been wondering aloud whether they would be home with their families by the 25th. They had laughed and embraced each other imagining how wonderful this would be.

When the survivors were reunited on Christmas Eve they found they were one campmate short. Yes it seemed only one of their people had been lost in their struggle against the Others, but his death alone was enough to defeat them. Their absent friend had left them with a chilling message, which Desmond had delivered in broken sobs. Since then they had fled to the caves, fearing more lies and manipulation from this new group of strangers. They had lit torches and stayed awake all night. But unlike the children who lay sleepless with excitement for this day, it was horror and heartache that kept them restless.

Christmas was here. It was Desmond's third Christmas on the island. The season had become more depressing to him with every year that he remained marooned on this island, so far from the woman he had foolishly left behind. During his lonesome time in the hatch he had sought comfort in the stories of his favourite author, curling up on his bunk with his dog-eared copy of _A Christmas Carol_. He had lost count of how many times he had read the cautionary tale of Ebenezer Scrooge who had been shown shadows of the future and had made a promise to change it. Desmond had made the same oath, but he was ashamed to say that he had not kept it. He had been a miser in his fatalism and foreboding. He should have put his faith in Dickens message of hope. For in his story, Tiny Tim had not died and Scrooge was no longer haunted by his visions of an empty chair in the Cratchit house.

For Desmond it wasn't chair or a pair of crutches. It was acoustic guitar lying bereft on a low platform of rock where he was told Charlie had once slept. Jack had carried the instrument from the beach with the solemn reverence of coffin bearer. This guitar had given a steadiness to the young man who so often seemed crippled by his insecurities. Now it was cracked and water damaged, its neck scarred by the point of an arrow. It would play no more music. No song either beautiful or broken would be plucked from its remaining strings. Yet this guitar was all they had for a body and grave of their poor friend who had been lost to the merciless sea.

Hurley kept his distance from the other mourners, feeling like his company was a disease that he didn't want anymore of his friends to catch. If this Christmas had come in better times then the big jolly fellow would have been their Santa Claus. He would have encouraged them all to feast and be merry. And Charlie would have been right there beside him; the helpful little elf who could ease their troubles and put a smile on their faces without them even noticing him. Hurley could no longer lift up his own spirits, let alone anyone elses. His curse had taken away their victory.

Only Claire and Aaron had received gifts this year. For the girl there was a frail sheet of paper listing five treasured moments from a short troubled life. _Memories are all I've got_, Charlie had said. Now those memories were all Claire had to cling to. Not the warm hand that she had so often reached for and pressed with her own. For the baby there was a silver ring; an heirloom passed down from the father he would never know. There had been one more gift of course. The gift intended for all of them. The gift of rescue which Charlie had paid for with his life. It had not come. _Not Penny's boat_. Though they were moved by the gesture, nothing could relieve the crushing weight of their disappointment.

They all looked to Claire and Aaron now, the helpless witnesses of their inconsolable sorrow. Claire was still and remote as a statue, kneeling with Aaron in her lap like an incomplete picture of the Nativity scene. Their young family would have no Joseph to protect them and lead them out of Bethlehem when Herod's soldiers came to harm them. And while it is said the baby Jesus did not cry, Aaron had been sobbing long and hard for the loved face that was missing from his world. He was very anxious to see it again, but not even his mother could explain why it would not come anymore.

This was how they passed their first Christmas on the island. There were no songs, no jokes…not even any ghosts. There was only a lingering silence for the young man whose sacrifice had left them all humbled and whose loss had cast a shadow over their hearts. There was no point in making wishes. The only thing they would wish for could not be granted. Fate would not allow Charlie to see this Christmas, nor any other Christmas that was yet to come.


End file.
